


A feeling called Love

by hushitisme



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-08-20 15:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8253497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hushitisme/pseuds/hushitisme
Summary: He was a man about logic, things that made sense, and surely what he felt  wasn’t logical. At least, not in the way he was feeling it.





	1. L

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsnotlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsnotlove/gifts).



"I-I..I  ne-never wanted this…”

It was the truth, as far as truths ran with him.

Tsukumoya had never wanted _ \--this.  _

whatever _ this _ was…

He was a man about logic, things that made sense, and surely what he felt  wasn’t logical. At least, not in the way he was feeling it.

“..n-not this..”

Gently, he ran fingertips across his keyboard, tracing each little square with care.

“Not like this."

-

An hour. 

-

Analytical eyes had not looked up, hadn’t moved from their spot on black squares and white lettering, but they had blinked. Once, twice, or maybe three times, in the passing seconds Tsukumoya remained hunched over his desk, his eyelids had fallen shut and then lifted back open. 

It was a minor action.

Trivial to anyone else.

But, he knew the other man staring down at him wouldn’t think so.

-   
  
Sixty minutes.   


-

It was odd that he was the only one to speak. What he said could have caught anyone off guard, however, this wasn’t just anyone.

This had been Orihara Izaya that he had spoken -- admitted illogical truths -- to but he would not lose by staring up at the informant to see what kept his childish, snide remarks to himself.

Tsukumoya Shinichi began to write.  

_ Click, click, click. _

He typed to drown out the silence.

-   
Three thousand and six hundred seconds.

-

“I know.”


	2. I hate you too

And as suddenly as the silence came between them in all those minutes leading up to this moment it fell away as if it never was there at all. 

 

It stole the breath from the older man’s lungs, made him weak for that voice more than he cared to admit (even to himself), and he hated it.

 

Absolutely dreaded the impact this pathetic man had on him. 

 

Because, as far as he was concerned, Orihara shouldn’t have been able to do any of this to him.

 

Out of his calculations, out of the possible outcomes, Tsukumoya  should not be sitting here with his heart pounding wild in his chest, aching to burst right out. If it was possible, which it wasn’t, but if it was,  _ if it really was possible _ , then surely there would be bruises from how aggressive the muscle fought to escape from its fleshly confinement. 

 

He looked away.

 

Didn’t look back to the informant as he saw in the corner of his eyes the other man move closer to him from behind, had tried to not focus on his presence any longer because it really was getting to be too much, but then hands had landed on his shoulders. Almost immediately, and amusingly enough apparently for Izaya (because there was a laugh for his reaction), the writer tensed, waiting for those palms to fall away.

 

They never did.

 

Their weight remained feather-light on Tsukumoya, and they burned, left heat seep from those palms down passed the shirt he wore and into his pores. 

 

His heart sped, ”D-don’t you have better things to do..” While his voice belied the racing muscles behavior,  “Instead of bothering me..? W-what do..do you gain fro--”   
  


And Izaya,    
  


“Nothing, if I’m being honest.”

Decided then to guide his palms further down from where they rested on Tsukumoya’s shoulders towards his chest, leaning forward while he did so. The dark haired man hovered, almost looming, over his seated captive. More heat spread out,  no longer coming from a single source now that there was a new weight against the writer. 

 

He fought to fall back towards that comforting warmth. 

 

Fought when lips came close to his ear and arms wrapped firmer around his frame to lock around his collarbone and shoulders, Izaya obviously draped around him to get a reaction, or--

 

_ “I hate you.” _

 

Kill him. 

 

With three little words.

 

“I-”

 

Fingers begun to type again. The seconds passing by as if time had finally started to flow between them again.

  
“Hate you, too.”


End file.
